


La Petite Mort

by stagprince666



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killer/Detective, Chef Mickey, Detective Ian, Ian Gallagher and Mandy Milkovich become Best Friends, M/M, Murder, Past Rape/Non-con, Serial Killer Mickey, body desecration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagprince666/pseuds/stagprince666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mickey is a serial killer and Ian is a newly promoted detective assigned to the La Petite Mort case. Unknowingly finding the serial killer while he's scouting out his next victim, Ian meets Mickey in the slums of the Southside of Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter title is a lyric or name of a song that reminds me of the chapter! This is the first time I'm writing a Gallavich fanfic, so forgive me if I don't really get the character right.

   Mickey lights another cigarette, taking a long drag. He knows he shouldn’t be chain smoking, he could accidentally drop a butt, leaving evidence that he was there; however, he always made a point of keeping track of them, so he doesn’t worry too much. The cold wind bellows in his ears, causing them to grow red. It’s a Tuesday night around 9:00pm. He’s watching hopefully as his next victim warms his hand around a barrel fire with other hobos. Mickey had caught wind that this guy likes to jack off to little girls in public, a real sick bastard, and Mickey wholeheartedly believed he deserved death. Anything that involves children is a real sore spot for Mickey, and he enjoys killing those kind of people the most. Beard Guy (Mickey couldn’t recall his name) looks up and Mickey sidesteps so he is blocked by the concrete overpass beam. Now he looks like just any old shmuck having a smoke.

   In this part of town, the South Side, he has always fit in better. If Mickey had to go out on a wild limb and guess, he would say it was because of the “Fuck u-up” tattoos on his fingers. He grew up here, but he still feels out of place, especially after years of living on the North Side. He still remembers the off brand Tang he and his sister would drink with breakfast and going to bed not all the way full from dinner. He remembers it all, but he’s glad that he no longer lives it. Though living on the North Side is nice, he doesn’t feel like he truly fits in there, too. To be honest, Mickey doesn’t think he fits in anywhere. Especially not with the family that adopted him, the Pulaski family; they might love him and welcomed him into their home, but he doesn’t feel like one of them, not like Mandy does. Actually, Mandy’s the reason they were adopted by Andrew and Robin. At first, they only wanted the thirteen year old girl, but didn’t want to separate her from her sixteen year old brother, so they had adopted both of them. Mickey had been quite lucky that they were so nice, he would have grown up in the system, most likely to join society as one of the sick fucks that he now kills.

    Also, Mandy is the reason that they both ended up in the system to begin with. Well, it wasn’t her fault, it was Terry’s, their father. One night when Mickey was fifteen, he heard the muffled cries of his sister through the thin walls of their little house. A deep dread had filled his veins when he heard the repetitive squeak of her bed, followed by Terry shushing her quiet. A deep disgust and hatred had overcome Mickey. Knowing instantly what was happening, he quietly threw back his sheets and picked up his metal bat. After opening his door, Mickey looked out into the empty living room, the street lights poured warm orange light into the room. He quickly walked the short distance to his sister’s room, to see the door already open.

   “You’re so pretty,” Mickey heard his father say from within Mandy’s room. Mickey, without warning, lifted the bat, and walked into the room. The orange light from the living room was all the light he needed to see his father’s pale hips shove forward, sister let forth a closed mouth sob. He had swung his bat without hesitation: his father was hurting his baby sister, and Mickey wouldn’t have it. The ping that the metal bat made when it connected with Terry’s skull echoed into the silent night air. The next sound that Mickey heard was the bed squeak from shifting weight, and Terry’s limp body thudding onto the floor.

   Mandy looked up in fright, her pale, young face was all that Mickey could focus on in that moment. All he saw was his little sister, her shirt in a disheveled state, and without pants. Mickey dropped the bat to pull the covers over a still stunned Mandy. After a beat, her whole body began to tremor with overwhelming, breathy sobs. She’d sat up, Mickey wrapped his arms around her and held tight until her crying lessened, all the while trying to suppress his anger. She was fucking twelve years old, she didn’t deserve this, no one did: to have her father, the man whom should love her and protect her, use her like a cheap hooker. If Terry wasn’t dead, Mickey was going to make sure he was. Mandy stopped crying, her gaze was caught by her dresser, she looked no where else.

   Releasing her from his arms, Mickey had gotten off the bed and kicked Terry in the side, but he didn’t stir. Mickey bent down, checking the pulse on Terry’s neck, surely enough, it was beating steadily under his skin. Mickey, even though he was only sixteen years, easily pulled his unconscious father from the room, dropping Terry’s legs onto the living room floor. Mickey was going to kill his father, it was the only way. If Terry were to wake up, he would beat both Mickey and Mandy until they were bloody. But how would Mickey go about killing his depraved father without too much of a mess? Mickey retrieved the metal bat from Mandy’s room, she was still looking at her dresser, spaced out. He put the bat’s barrel to Terry’s neck, hands at both ends of it, and began to push as hard as he could. His father gasped and made gargled noises, but never woke up, and soon, his father’s flinching limbs grew still, and eventually his struggle to breathe stopped. Mickey released the bat, and checked Terry’s pulse. It had stopped.

***

   “What are you doing here?” A voice says, snapping Mickey from his thoughts; he doesn’t flinch though, he never does, so maybe he doesn’t look suspicious.

   “Havin’ a smoke. What’s it to ya?” Mickey looks over to whomever disturbed him, but the man’s face is shrouded by the night’s darkness.

   “Chicago PD,” the man states, he pushes the side of his coat over, probably to show his badge, but Mickey can’t see anything because of the darkness. “Was wondering why you’re smoking here of all places.”

   “I was on a walk, got tired of walking and wanted a smoke, is that a crime, officer?”

   “No, but this place can be dangerous at night. Maybe you should smoke somewhere else. And I’m a detective.” Detective, fuck, they investigate murders and shit. So they finally found Mickey’s hunting grounds. Took ‘em long enough.

   “Don’t worry, detective,” Mickey sneers, “I’m a big boy, I can handle my own.”

   “Well, still, this place is dangerous at night.”

   “What are you doing here, of all places?” he mocks.

   The man shifts from one foot to the other, looking down, “Patrol.”

   “Our wonderful tax dollars are paying you to take late night strolls and sip coffee.”

   “Don’t come here at night again, it’s dangerous,” the detective replies.

   Mickey stubs out the final bit of his cigarette on the overpass beam and begins to walk away. “Don’t worry,” he says, continuing to walk away, “I promise I won’t make a habit of it, officer.”

   “Detective,” he is corrected immediately.

   “Whatever.” Mickey turns around to see the detective’s face in better light. The man has a strong jaw, short red hair, and the prettiest eyes Mickey has ever seen. Man, if Mickey wasn’t already gay, this detective might have turned him. “See you later, detective…”

   “Gallagher,” the detective finishes. “Here,” he holds out his hand, “This is my card. If you see anything suspicious, give me a call.” Mickey takes the card and looks at it for a moment. Ian Gallagher, is typed in bold at the top of the card along with a landline and cell number.

   Mickey smirks. “And,” he pauses, “What if I want to buy you a drink sometime, officer?” He asks, purposely getting the man’s title wrong. Mickey smiles his flirty smile, the one he knows works well. Maybe he shouldn’t be taunting a law enforcement and shamelessly flirt with him, you know, because of the whole ‘I’m-a-serial-killer-thing’ but Mickey doesn’t really care. He isn’t planning on actually going out with the guy, just seeing if the detective is actually into dudes. Because, man, does Mickey love a man in uniform.

   Gallagher gives a half smile, and says: “Then still call.” Mickey’s heart beats a little faster. So this dude is into dudes, hmh. Maybe if Mickey were to ever stop murdering people (fat chance), he should give him a call. Mickey would like to know what the Detective could do with that pretty mouth.

   “Good to know,” he says, turning around and starting to head in the direction of the road. Mickey doesn’t look back at the Detective, hoping to give off the sense that he doesn’t give a fuck. But in reality, Mickey would jump that cop’s bones in a heart beat. Gallagher looks so nice, like he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.

   Mickey likes them sweet like that.

***

   Wednesday is going to be a bitch, Ian just knows that much. He is sitting at his desk drinking his fourth coffee, looking over some meaningless paperwork. If Ian had known there was going to be this much paperwork involved, he probably wouldn’t have became a cop. However, he loved the rush of handcuffing a perp and putting ‘em in the back of a cruiser. He looks up to find Connie, his sergeant, walking toward him. It isn't just any walk, it is either her ‘Tons-of-bad-shit-just-happen’ walk or her ‘We-just-got-new-evidence’ walk; Ian hopes that it is the latter, because his case hasn’t gotten any new leads in weeks..

   As part of some hazing tradition, new detectives get put on cold cases or nearly unsolvable crimes, to ‘get fresh eyes’ on the case, but Ian thinks its because no one else wants to waste their time on them. The case he was put on, which has been open for four years and is still getting new evidence, is famous in the police department, but no one wants to find the guy. The ‘La Petite Mort Killer’, what the media has taken to calling him, is a very interesting case. Many people in the department call him a hero, some a vigilante; personally, Ian thinks he’s a hero, so why would he try hard to get him off the streets? He wouldn’t, so Ian mostly just drags his feet to slow down the case, but not that the case needs any help. La Petite Mort is one of the most successful killers Chicago has ever seen, killing eighteen people and a presumed four more in just under four years. He leaves no evidence and no body, no trace save for the victims’ right arm.

   If they get a call about a missing person, after two days of the victim’s absence, the right arm of the victim is found in a public area. Street corners, allies, outside dumpsters, benches, and even doorsteps are all likely places to find the aftermath of La Petite Mort. But not only do they find the arm of the victim, they learn why La Petite Mort killed the person. The latest arm they found was a little over three weeks ago, with the words I fuck underage boys carved into the forearm. The victim, Blake Collins, was a woman who was convicted of stachatory rape and had served five years in prison. After her release, she was reported missing by her sister, they found her arm on her own doorstep two days later. They never found the rest of her body, just like all the other people La Petite Mort killed.

   Connie stomps up to Ian and clears her throat. “Gallagher, we found another arm.” Others in the office look up just as Ian did, all with a look of curiosity. Most of the detectives get together to go over the new evidence, but leave Ian to track down leads or review evidence. “It seems to be a man’s arm this time,” Connie says. “Come on, Gallagher.”

    Ian puts his coffee down and closes the file he had been looking at, before leaving with Connie. They walk down to the morgue, silence stretching between them until they reach the stairwell. "This time, the arm was delivered to us, it was on the step to the back door to the morgue. Sheila found it.”

   "Wait, did we get surveillance on the guy?" Ian asks.

   "Haven't checked it yet." They enter the morgue, swiftly walking to the center table. There is a thick plastic bag on it, Ian can see a slab of pale flesh, blurred from the wrapping. The forearm is thick, with coarse black hair peppered on the knuckles and along the ridge of the arm. Sheila Jackson, the precinct's medical examiner, is in the corner, in nigh hyperventilation. She is dressed in her full medical examiner garb, sporting a face cover that reminds Ian of a riot helmet. The idea of Sheila being in a riot makes Ian chuckle inwardly.

   “Sheila, are you alright?” Ian asks. They have always been very friendly, Ian and Sheila; they had a few things in common: being screwed over by Ian’s dad, Frank. Sheila had dated Frank for about a year, then they broke up. However, so that Sheila could adopt a few Native American children, Sheila had married Frank. After her attempt to adopt the children failed, she wanted to sell her house to, and Ian quotes, ‘competitive lesbians.’ Frank urged her not to sell, he wanted the house so he could continue with some project of his; eventually though, whatever he was doing in the basement blew up, completely destroying the house. That was the last straw for Sheila, she left him and started a new life on in North Side.

   “Yeah, I’m fine Ian,” Sheila says through gasps of air. “I just wasn’t expecting an arm to be waiting for me when I got to work.” The medical examiner steps up to the examination table; with rubber clad hands, she opens the bag to show Ian and Connie it’s contents. Indeed, it is an arm, chopped off at the elbow. Sheila turns it over, showing the words crudely carved into the flesh. The words I beat up gays and sold drugs to kids are in blood red lettering; Sheila says that it was done premortem.

   “Wow,” Ian says. “Must of hurt.” Connie and Sheila agree.

   Connie and Ian are talking about murders from the case while Sheila takes the arm’s fingerprints. Most of the deaths were from the South Side, but a few were from the North. Charles Stain, one of the previous North Side murders, had gotten off from the charge for the vehicular manslaughter of an eighteen year old girl. His arm had been found at a busstop. Nat Kelly’s arm was found on a bench at a playground. His arm simply read “I’m a pedophile.” When searching his house, they found kiddy porn on his laptop, but aside from that, they didn’t find anything else on him. A preemptive strike, Ian presumes. Sheila give Ian the fingerprints, urging them to leave so that she could disinfect the steps leading to the morgue’s back door.

****  
  



End file.
